How My Bank Stole $1,000 From Me
I checked my account, expecting to see $200. Instead, there was negative $800.
In 2007, I was broke — not Ramen-noodle-dinner broke but discount-chicken-that-HAS-to-be-eaten-tonight broke. I pulled up to the ATM, since hard cash was still a thing, and withdrew some paltry amount (pun intended), probably 40 bucks or so. When I looked at the screen, my gut churned. My account was 800 bucks in the red.
I swaggered into my local branch like a gunslinger looking for an ill-fated poker game.
“Can I help you?” said the greeter.
“I need to speak to the manager,” I announced, channeling all the future Karens to come.
“OK, one of our relationship managers will be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”
Relationship manager? What was this, an impromptu therapy session? It turned out to be not far from the truth.
“Pablo?” said a 30-something-year-old man in a Men’s Warehouse suit.
“Let’s have a seat in my office,” he offered.
“Whatever you say, dick.”
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